A Reading

Between sunbursts, the weather around my home alternated between rain and hail. It was a tumultuous day. It began with a trip to the accountant and news of a refund. My wife and I had expected to pay but we were greeted with good news. Then, off to the doctor for my daughter's two-year physical.

While she falls well into the realm of average for height, weight, and developmental milestones, we had to endure the words "cerebral palsy" for the first time. Let me be clear, it is not a diagnosis, it is a possibility. We had to sit there and hear about MRI scans, sedation, and entertain the possibility of a previous stroke. Our baby is healthy and happy but there are a couple of things that remain to be determined and the not knowing is the worst kind of torture. This is not spinning me off into despair, on the contrary, I feel, for the first time, like we are beginning to narrow the field of possibility. We switched pediatricians and this new doctor is frank, sympathetic, and available to questioning. While the news itself was hard to hear, at least it came in the form of news.

So, the afternoon continued with a long dose of snuggling from my daughter as I put her to bed. She tucked herself into the crook of my shoulder, her doll tucked in the crook of her own shoulder. She drank warm milk from her sippy cup, looked me in the eyes and cooed until her lids grew heavy with the pace of the day. I slipped her into her crib, tucked her in tight under two blankets soft as suede, and made my way to the patio to read from The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay.

The babysitter showed up early, as requested, and I tucked myself into my father's Expedition and headed off to the airport. I was early, as is my custom, and pulled into the cell phone waiting area. More Kavalier and Clay. When my cell phone rang, I was tickled to find Ellen Bass on the other side of the line. She had landed and was ready to make her way to Pacific University to give her reading.

We chatted the whole way there about writing, poetry, students, teaching, and the sacrifices and struggles the writing life imposes. She was sympathetic and charming and before we knew it the drive was over. We pulled in front of the new Thai restaurant in Forest Grove and met the other reader, Alissa Nielsen, a fellow teacher, and a couple of students from the creative writing program. The menu was expansive and meal was delicious but we were already pressing for time.

We made our way over to Taylor Auditorium, a space that has played host to many inspirational craft talks during my MFA program. The night began with Alissa reading. Her story was a knockout. I remember the closet where the main character hid, the threat of violence between a father and a son, the image of box elders swarming, and the lovely final note that resonated on past the close of the story. It was fantastic.

Ellen, for her part, was her charming self. Her poetry was accessible, her demeanor plain and open. The students laughed, celebrated her work, and ripped into applause when the day was done. I sat in my seat well after the final poem had been read. I was soaking it all in, trying to process the language that swam over me. The reading had been a comfort, a wanted distraction and call to attention, I felt that Alissa and Ellen had tucked me in with their words and their work felt warm and soft as suede.